Remember When

I recently read a newspaper article about this fella who sits on his front porch in all kinds of weather and just waves to motorists.I liked the story; it was a good, but it was a bit unusual these days and times.Why?Cause folks don’t normally speak to strangers.Sometimes, that doesn’t make much sense; they will remain strangers unless no one makes a casual effort to speak or at least nod their head in acknowledgment.You know, I’ve been told more than once told that I sorta go overboard on the “howdy”

Long before Goodwill Industries came along, Saturday mornings were famous for the unofficial rummage sale in downtown Lancaster.Things were considerably different in a lot of ways back then, but some things never change.Britches still get too tight on growing boys. I was reminded of that recently after donating some clothes to Goodwill.I just can’t figure it out. A lot of my pants seem to be shrinking since my retirement. Must be all that hot water we use.

Try as I may, I just can’t put my fingers on King Solomon’s words in Proverbs that describe just how sweet it is to recover something that you lost.Seeing how I’ve never been at a loss of words, that notion isn’t going to leave me speechless.I’ll paraphrase it.“Oh, behold the joys of 9 to 5.”Most plowboys (and girls) my age worked 40 years or more before hanging up the old plowshare (or it was hung up for us).More than once during those 14,600 days at the grindstone, I dreamed of retiring t

About a month had passed since that 10-pound bomb came crashing down on Mr. Ben’s front steps.You may recall, it was only pretend – a sack flour to signify that Mr. Ben was burning his lights during a blackout drill. Hey, the prospect of a Luftwaffe Heinkel “Flaming Coffin” dropping its bomb payload over Chesterfield Avenue didn’t set well with anybody in the neighborhood and Mr Ben wasn’t helping our chances.But Mr. Ben didn’t much cotton very much to all of these wartime rules and regulations.

Gosh, I knew going from Chesterfield Avenue Grammar School across town to Lancaster High School would be a great adventure, but I didn’t know it would be so intimidating.We eighth grade boys were “required” (by tradition) to “run the belt line.”First, we were afforded a couple of days of acclimation to learn our way around the campus to find our homerooms.Those two days were filled with all sorts of scary threats coming from male upper classmen, like “Boy, you’ll be able to tell where I hit you” and &ldquo

As I get older – or maybe as I grow mellow – the bad stuff that happened during my childhood just doesn’t seem worth recalling.But it did happen, like when I occasionally got my britches dusted.And at one time, I figured I owned the world record for sitting through lectures while staring down at my shoe tops.Having sisters and brothers pays off. It seems that everybody I knew had a couple of brothers and sisters as an added layer of insulation during troubling times.I wasn’t as lucky.

No sooner had the final school bell rung for our last day at Chesterfield Avenue Grammar School, the bell at First Baptist Church peeled, summoning all of us to Vacation Bible School.Mama said most folks thought it best to start “Bible school” just as soon as regular school let out while “you children haven’t forgotten how to be nice and calm.”Nowadays, there is a difference of opinion when it comes to Bible school, or VBS, as many choose to call it.A lot of churches schedule Bible school smack dab in the middle of the summ

Features editor Greg Summers recently called the house and asked if I had a column in mind for Father’s Day. I guess Spam can only stretch so far.Last year, I wrote a tribute to my Dad who shared 39 years with me before his death. I told Greg even if I wished for it, I couldn’t add much more to what had written.Leave it to me to speak a little too soon; What in the world was I thinking?Come to think of it, I was blessed with two dads, one was biological.